the light of day is fading
by shadowsnumberless
Summary: The spectre of Death has always presided over the life of a certain Russian skater.


This is what happens when you tell yourself, _i'll quit writing, because i can't write for shit._ Especially fanfic. Your muse will spend its time trying to stop you from starving it and come up with the most ridiculous of AUs. And to think all this started because I was drooling at Victor and noticed that he very much resembled the early Deaths [and the beautiful androgynous Takarazuka actresses].

Dedicated to Ellen, my long-suffering Facebook coconspirator and kouhai, to Nobu who led me into the Elisabeth fandom through her enthusiastic posting, and to Charlie [if ey ever comes across this], my Plurk partner-in-crime. I love y'all, and sorry for the crap quality and weirdass-ness that is my wish-fulfilment writing.

Beta-ed by Natalie [cresstic on Twitter and AO3].

Title comes from a song in _Elisabeth, Die Schatten werden länger_ , specifically its reprise. That's the song where Prince Rudolf dances with Death. Literally. It's the gay song, if you don't count the Mayerling Waltz. You don't have to have any knowledge of the musical for this fic, though I made plenty of references to it. Essentially, it's about the life of the Empress Elisabeth of Austria, reimagined as what is essentially her search for freedom and love affair with Death himself. And the carnage it leaves in their wake. My favorite cast for it, and the cast that I will be picturing writing this, is the 2012 Vienna revival, with Mark Seibert as Death, Annemieke van Dam as Elisabeth, and Anton Zetterholm as Rudolf. Speaking of the show, there's also some references to a certain Elisabeth fanfic that I like very much. Can you find it? :)

Victor's parents are named Mikhail and Katerina as a shoutout to Separation Anxiety by Okaeri_Kairi WHAT ARE YOU STILL DOING HERE, GO READ SEPANX. Disclaimer: It's just a shoutout because I literally can't think of Victor's parents being named anything else. SepAnx is just that good. Other than that, my characterization, if any, hews closer to the musical's portrayal of Franz Joseph and Elisabeth - Rudolf's parents - than what Kairi does with Papa and Mama Nikiforov. And besides, her writing's wonderful, and mine sucks.

I'm on twitter as liquid_sleep and tumblr as waytoadream - feel free to follow if you want to swear at me, or decide to check out what in tarnation this Elisabeth or Yuri on Ice thing is! =))) I might be able to direct you towards locations to watch one/both. The tag for this AU is #elisabethonice on any social media, in case you want to discuss it...

There is zero fact-checking done in this, because all I know, I know from the two shows. Nothing about figure skating, or life in Russia/Japan. So... help wanted? =))

* * *

 _sei bereit, sternkind_

 ** _Trigger warning: this chapter includes a not-detailed description of a car accident and implied death of a minor._**

Step right up, ladies and gentlemen and those who identify as neither! Welcome to the story of Victor Nikiforov, five-time consecutive world champion, a living legend. You must be here expecting a fun time - perhaps an edgy retelling of what you have known to be true. You want something fresh added on top of your regular experience, so you can enjoy the old material again and again without feeling the staleness of rereading.

But mostly, I am sure, you are here expecting a comforting, moral story about how the underdogs win despite all odds. How they defy the establishment. About two people finding each other, _completing_ each other, and then living happily ever after in the blissfulness that is what you've been taught to expect from life by fiction.

Well, this is not that kind of story.

Consider yourself duly warned. No refunds will be issued even in cases of severe emotional trauma.

You're still here? Right then, let's start.

It did not begin the moment Victor Nikiforov put on skates for the first time and slid slowly, clumsily, around on the ice with his mother. Their laughter had rang out across the public rink as they clung together for balance. (It turned out that Katerina, despite being a dancer, was utter rubbish when there were skates instead of ballet shoes on her feet. If you asked him about it, Victor would give you his best PR smile and deny it fervently, but he was _delighted_ that he found something that he could have for himself. Something Katya couldn't do.)

It did not begin when he went home and found out about quads, triples, and international championships.

No, the story started much later, at the Russian Nationals. All was well; Victor won gold in his Junior debut, the best birthday present he could have given himself. He laughed, teary-eyed, when Papa gave him a hard clap on the back and an enthusiastic "Here comes the champion!", leading to Mama suddenly realization that she'd actually left the (surprise) tin of victory gingerbread meant for her _pryanichek_ in St. Petersburg.

"Katya, you went a little overboard with that one…" Mikhail protested, but then again, he knew all too well that stopping his wife when an idea strikes her is a nigh-impossibility (The amount of rants he heard from his son's coach on the same topic is an everlasting fount of amusement for them. Vitya is an aggravating child, but they could hardly fault him for a trait that they also have a-plenty).

Katerina glowered. " _Misha._ Our son is now officially the top Junior skater of our _country._ This needs a proper celebration!"

"The tin is twice the size of his head!"

"Mama, I'm still in training, I'll just have one or two -"

"VICTOR MIKHAILOVICH!" The force of Yakov Feltsman's bellowing startled them all. Victor winced a little as his coach strode up to their little circle. "I'm sorry, Mikhail Yemelyanovich, Katerina Ivanovna, but -"

"Uh-oh," Katya - _traitor, Mama! -_ giggled a little, "I see trouble!" Her husband just heaved a sigh and patted Victor on the back. "We'll see you later."

Just like that, they were gone, leaving him to Yakov's tender mercies and not unexpected lecture about pulling moves his body wasn't ready for - "WHAT DO YOU PAY ME FOR VICTOR IF YOU NEVER EVEN STOP TO CONSIDER ABOUT A WORD I SAY VICTOR IS THINKING A FOREIGN CONCEPT FOR YOU VICTOR -"

Victor ended up silencing his tirade (turned it into angry unintelligible spluttering, more like) with a cheerful, "I got the gold, didn't I?" and the biggest smile plastered on his face. But for some inexplicable reason, and though both of them knew his Coach would rather die than admit it, he could feel pride from the older man.

Did he feel guilty? Yes. Did he know Yakov was right? Also, yes. But he was just so flush with success, so impossibly damned _giddy_ that even if someone threw ice water on him and insulted his entire family right there, he would probably just laugh it off. If this was what being on top of an entire country feels like, how much better would being an international champion be?

Okay, in his bracket at least. He couldn't wait for his first Senior, international gold - now _that_ was success.

The rest of the event was a blur. Victor will admit to feeling a bit tired of having to answer the same questions from every reporter and admirer who got close enough, but he supposed he would have to get used to it. His exhibition - Rubinstein's Fantasia - went pleasantly well. On the way to their car, Katerina stepped on the wrong patch of snow and stumbled. Mikhail and Victor managed to haul her upright a split-second early, or she would have fallen - her large, rounded stomach hitting the ground first. There was breathless laughter when the momentary terror was over ("Eager to get out, isn't she?" "I couldn't possibly keep up with running after this one! Vitya, you'll help corral Sonya, won't you? After all the chases you led me on? Remember when -" "We're in _public_ , Mama!" "Your future legion of adoring fans will want to know. We can auction your photos! You'll sign them?" " _Papa._ ").

In hindsight, that should have been their first warning.

They had just piled into their car when Victor heard tires screaming.

He opened his mouth to cry out something. The other vehicle barreled into them.

Right where he and Katerina were seated.

And then, there was darkness.

At first, when he came to, his eyes were screwed shut. It was so bright it would probably burn had he tried. But there was no pain otherwise, which was odd, because he did remember being in a terrible accident. Even if he had woken up in a hospital, surely it would be awfully uncomfortable?

Then he realized he was being carried. He didn't recognize the sensation at first, because it felt wrong somehow. He'd sprained his ankle once on the ice, and Misha had nearly knocked several kids over in his haste to sweep him up. He'd cried into his father's shirt-

Oh. Heat. People were supposed to be warm, yet his cheek was pressed against something as cold as marble.

His back touched something. A mattress, hard, not like the one in his room that he could bounce on (He got too high once and cracked his head against the ceiling). He felt himself being put down, a blanket being drawn over him.

"Papa?" Victor croaked out, forcing his eyes open.

It wasn't Misha, but someone just a little bit older. He was dressed in white from head to toe, but in a suit instead of a lab coat - not a doctor, then. His hair was blond, almost as white as Victor's in the light. He was what the girls at school would sigh at and call "ruggedly handsome" (not that the boy would ever understand why) as they crowded, giggling, over his photograph.

The man was a stranger, true, because Victor had never seen him before, but it wouldn't be out of place to just call him _strange,_ either. There was something odd about him; it didn't quite add up. Maybe it was his eyes: two pitch black, flat discs, focused intensely on the boy in the bed. Victor didn't like that look at all. It resembled the once-over his competitors would give him when he stepped on the ice, sizing him up. Or the way the man was unmoving like a statue, not making any of the small movements people do - shifting from foot to foot, moving their heads minutely, things like that - even when they are supposed to be standing still. Or how cold he was, that Victor couldn't feel any body heat even through the clothing.

Victor wanted to ask where his parents were, and where _he_ was. What came out of his mouth instead was, "Who are you?"

"I am… a friend."

The next thing that emerged would probably have earned him a reprimand had his parents or teacher heard: "... _what_ are you?" But, instead of telling him off for being rude, the stranger quirked an eyebrow and laughed in delighted surprise.

"Perceptive!" He sat down on the bed, smiling. "Tell me, then, little _Viten'ka_ , what you think I am."

If there's one thing you should know about Victor Nikiforov, it's that he's an utter sucker for challenges and mysteries. He frowned, his brows furrowing as he turned the matter over, running over the checklist of what he _does_ know. Then, with the speed of the car that had appeared out of nowhere, it clicked.

 _"Death?_ Am I -"

"Not quite," the man - _Death, himself_ \- chuckled lightly. "Somewhere in between."

Victor thought his eyes must have been the size of saucers, the way he was staring aghast. "But - my parents?" And suddenly, he could see a different room overlaid on the one he was in. There were machines, doctors, nurses, all in a state of frenzied activity. He blinked again, and the image was gone, leaving behind a white void, with no walls or windows whatsoever. The only thing that was clear was himself, the bed, and his companion.

"You are here, Victor Mikhailovich," Death told him, voice solemn, but with mirth dancing in his eyes, "because you have a choice to make." Cold fingers found warm ones over the blanket and laced their hands together tightly. They didn't feel as uncomfortable as before. "You are meant for great things, more than what the skating world could ever imagine. You will have more than just that gold at the Russian Nationals. The car that struck you was a fluke that I could not stop in time. But I can help you now... if you will let me."

The boy sat up on the bed, eyes narrowed, attention fully focused on the man. "A choice?"

"You can either choose to end it here and move on without regret. The world will remember you as a skating prodigy gone tragically soon. Or…" Death's smile widened, "you can return to life, and suffer through it - but you will be a five-time consecutive world champion. A Prince among common skaters, a _genius_."

Victor couldn't help himself. He burst into incredulous laughter. "What kind of choice is that? The second one, obviously!" He gestured towards himself. "I have years of skating in me and you think I'll just quit?" Besides, if he _did_ choose the first one, he was pretty sure Yakov would stalk right into the afterlife and drag him out, yelling all the way back to Russia to tell him off for even _thinking_ of slacking off. He wouldn't put it past the man at all.

"Of course," Death agreed, expression genial, almost approving in a paternal way. "Nothing more than what I would expect from you."

Somehow, Victor couldn't shake the distinct feeling that he had just been played.

His companion stood. The mattress did not make a sound. "Very well." A hand was placed on his shoulder, affectionate. "Sleep, _Viten'ka_. And then… welcome to the brave new world of your own making. And remember that with this choice, I will always be close to you; you only need to call when you need me."

It felt only a second later when he woke up, this time in a hospital room. There were still machines, beeping steadily - but this time, his body felt as if he'd taken another thorough pounding like the last time some kids didn't take a fancy to his pretty face and ponytail. At his first groan, he could hear the shuffle of a chair being pushed back hastily, and footsteps.

"Vitya?" Mikhail also had bandages around his head, and his arm was in a sling, but otherwise he was unharmed. "Are you alright, son? Does it hurt? Do you need a nurse?"

The boy shook his head - the motion made him a little bit dizzy, but he wasn't too concerned about that right now. There was a feeling greater than pain, a sense of _wrong_ that he needed to sort out right there before any doctor could rush in. Under the joy of seeing his son awake, it was undeniable that Mikhail had been crying. His eyes were red and puffy, and the circles around them might as well have been tattooed.

"...Papa? Where's -" There it is, that dread again. "Where's Mama and Sonya?"

If Victor had been sitting up, he would have seen his father's free hand clench, fingernails drawing blood from his palm. "Katya's just out of surgery. They said she's doing well. But -"

Oh.

 _No._

 _"Sonya…"_ The exhalation was sharp and lanced, white-hot, like a knife into his head. Mikhail looked straight at Victor, eyes - the same eyes he had given his son - glistening. His voice broke. "She died."

* * *

More author's notes than you'd care to read:

\- This chapter's title comes from a line in Totale Finsternis, a song from the German original version of Tanz der Vampire, European success and legendary Broadway flop. English speakers might know the song as Total Eclipse of the Heart. "Sei bereit, sternkind," is the equivalent of "Turn around, bright eyes,". My absolute favorite rendition is by Mark Seibert and Veronica Appeddu, available here. Mark and Anton Zetterholm, the aforementioned Death and Prince Rudolf, were both in Tanz, just not in the same production. And yes, before you ask... there's also a very gay duet/dance in Tanz.

\- I deliberately kept things vague to edit later, but the working assumption is that Victor's debut is in 1999. The very year Evgeni Plushenko won gold. =))) No, it's an entire coincidence. But the universe is rarely so lazy...

\- _pryanichek_ : Russian term of endearment, meaning _gingerbread man_. Another one of my little nods to SepAnx.

\- Why Nikolai Rubinstein's Fantasia, you ask? He was a close friend and colleague of Pyotr Ilych Tchaikovsky. (Yuuri's first exposure to Victor was via the Junior Worlds short program, which was Tchaikovsky's The Lilac Fairy). He tended towards a restrained style of composing and playing, unlike his intense brother Anton (who is now more famous than Nikolai). Nikolai's death was a personal tragedy for poor Tchaikovsky. My brain just liked the allusion, with the two Yuris connected to the Rubinsteins, and Victor connected to Tchaikovsky. After all, Tchaikovsky was also very concerned about his audience's emotional experiences, just like Victor. "Tchaikovsky's main concern was how his music impacted his listeners on an aesthetic level, at specific moments in the piece and on a cumulative level once the music had finished. What his listeners experienced on an emotional or visceral level became an end in itself." (Francis Maes)


End file.
